A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)
by Meysun
Summary: Thorin is thirty-six, almost of age - and slaving away in a forge in Dunland. When the chance to find work in Tharbad arises, he is determined to fight for it. Little does Thorin know that these months in Tharbad will mark his heart and soul forever - and question an almost life-long friendship.
1. Prologue

**A/N :** _Dear readers, do not wonder if this story seems familiar to you :)._

 _I have decided to re-edit my kilometrical fic "The King of Carven Stone" (where I basically try to imagine what Thorin's life has been), and to divide it in parts that can be read separately - it allows me to tag it better, now that I know where I want to take you._  
 _For those who join the adventure now : this story is told from Thorin's point of view, as he lies dying on Ravenhill and remembers._  
 _It this seventh part, Thorin is thirty-six, which makes him about sixteen in human age (following my own rules of Dwarven age)._

 _Since I don't believe to be able to re-edit all the parts quickly, rest assured : "The King of Carven Stone" still exists in its whole and original version, on A03 and on Fanfiction, and will continue to remain so, till the end. I will still post every new chapter there, and keep you informed on the release of the "separate fics" as well._

 _Enjoy and do not hesitate to leave a comment, I love them! Till soon, Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part VII**

 **A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)**

 **Prologue.  
**

 _Thorin…_

 _Thunbelê…_

The wind is full of taunts. It is playing with me, and I do not have the strength to fight it. I do not even have strength left to open my eyes, or move my head. There is ice on my cheek, and it is burning. There are shadows behind my eyelids, and they are swirling. There are whispers around me, and I long to… I long to…

 _You are so warm. I know you would be…_

It is so vivid, that voice I haven't heard in more than a century. It is full of repressed fire. Full of trust, and full of lies. I could never tell them apart – and whatever flame it awakened was quenched long ago. There was no fire left in me after war. Not that kind. Not for me. Just that tiny chain that I kept, and brought with me for this quest.

A thief's empty promise, for a fool's errand.

 _I know you would be_ …

What is it to me now…? Why is it I have to remember that, now that all has been said, now that all is so broken…? I do not care. It is nothing to me. It never was. It seems so fleeting now, I was just a boy, and that boy has died long ago… I lost so much more. It does not matter. It does not matter, and yet… That tiny chain feels like lead on my chest. It is choking me, and I know I will have to live through that as well, one last time.

So be it, then, _Tharabâl_. So be it.


	2. Chapter 2

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VII**

 **A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)**

 **1.**

Seven years had passed, and we were all leaving childhood, save Dís who was still lingering on its threshold. She was almost as old as I was when the Dragon came, but her beard had not begun to grow yet, and though she was way too tall now to be carried around, she was still a lass, flat-chested and lanky – and always on Frerin's heels. She was too young still to begin her apprenticeship, but she had begun to give us a hand us with finer work of cutlery, and also helped Balin with some paperwork, thus practising her runes and trying to get a bit of the education we had all been lucky enough to have before the Dragon came.

She was still just a child, though – ever since our settlement had begun to grow, Dwarven families joining us one after the other from the Orocarni and other places of exile, Dís had begun to forge alliances and friendships, with boys and girls alike. Their favourite game of the moment was to follow Dwalin everywhere, and to giggle madly every time he spotted them – which didn't prevent Dís from acting perfectly normally when he was there for dinner, and to curl up next to him whenever Balin was mollified enough to treat us with a story.

Frerin had grown too, his whiskers making room for proper stubble, his limbs growing and his voice breaking and hitching just like mine used to – yet he was as chatty and lively as ever, and always ready for a song or a drink. Frerin ever was pliable, and as such, though his dream was to become a stonemason, he was content with starting his apprenticeship as a carpenter. In my brother's views, there being no marble nor stone in Dunland, he was not ashamed to use what these lands had to offer – he would learn his way through wood, and _'adad_ would teach him the rest whenever we would settle into Mountains again. My father had smiled very tenderly at this, and had promised him he would – and assured him that his way was the right one. He had encouraged him, and included him in the building of the settlement's small houses, and Frerin was satisfied, though he never let us eat dinner without grumbling about just how harsh and stingy Master Heri was with his apprentice.

"Pub tonight?"

The small bell at the entrance of the village's forge chimed, and Frerin came in, perching himself on one of the tables. It was so small. It wasn't in the settlement, but in one of the villages of Men close by – they had agreed to rent us a few of the outer houses, being reluctant to enter our settlement for our services. As such, Dwalin and me were both slaving away as cheap blacksmiths, but not in the same place – I was further away from the settlement, going there every morning with a few Dwarves, while Frerin and Dwalin followed the apprentices and masters in the closest village.

"I don't think so...

\- Thorin, please. I've been good, I swear. I've worked hard, I've not even said a word when old Heri grumbled about the way my wood chips have the habit of swirling around his feet and getting into his spare boots – even though I _might_ have… but never mind! Althi and Bergur said they could make it tonight, and that Eikin, Elspa and Ganar might be able to join us too.

\- Why do you need to hang out with them all?"

Frerin's eyebrows shot up and he laughed, brightly.

"Why – because they're my friends, your oaf! Just because you're happy with _one_ doesn't mean I don't like a bigger circle, every now and then. Besides..."

He bent towards me and whispered:

"I already asked Dwalin and he said _anything_ to save him from another report about the state of finances and management after dinner – Balin can be such a bore, really!

\- Balin takes care of the settlement's expanses. He's helping ' _adad_ and grandfather a lot...

\- Aye Thorin, I know! You are such a bore too, you know!"

He rolled his eyes and swayed his legs, but then he jumped down, rounded the counter and took hammer and chisel from my hands, keeping his fingers around my wrists, looking up at me with the clearest gaze he could muster.

"Please, Thorin… Just one drink. It will be good for you to let off some steam…

\- How very thoughtful of you."

My voice was dry and it was my turn to arch an eyebrow, gazing down at him – I was still taller, and I had a proper beard now. Meaning I wasn't fooled for an instant.

"All right", Frerin sighed, and he had the decency of looking down. "What if… what if I dearly want a drink but haven't any coin left?

\- And why would that be?

\- Because I… lost a bet and had to buy drinks for Bergur, and Althi.

\- What kind of bet?"

I was frowning now – worry beginning its familiar nagging deep down in my stomach, but Frerin just shrugged, and the sheepish look on his face seemed genuine when he answered:

"You know, the worst is – none of us really remembers. Something about the girl serving the drinks in the village's inn, probably. I forgot..."

He looked up at me, and my face must have spoken volumes because he released my wrists, slowly, and took a step back.

"It was silly, I know. And I… I know you what you are going to say, Thorin, believe me, I do… It sound even sillier standing here, with you all – … So don't say it, Thorin. I know you think I'm careless, and stupid, and that it serves me right.

\- No."

I rubbed my face, tiredly. It had been a long day, and my eyes were aching from staring into the embers. I was sick of that small village, sick of that forge and its repetitive work, and I had no inclination at all for scolding that day – nor _any_ day.

"It's just… _kudz_ , I cannot help to think that they are using you, somehow.

\- It's my coin!", Frerin said fiercely. "It's in the contract. A fourteenth of the share for apprentice's needs.

\- Yes. _Needs_. Not… Paying for all your friends, every single time.

\- Not every single time! Just when I happen to lose a bet…

\- And last week? When you felt obliged to treat them with a second round? They are so quick in swallowing it down, much quicker than letting you have one for free – I have heard them, Frerin, and seen them too, especially Bergur, and I don't want you to… I don't want you to let them make you pay for the fact that once, long ago, you might have been better off, because right now…

\- It does not enter your head, does it?"

Frerin had got very pale, and rigid.

"That it might be something else than just profit that makes them hang out with me. That I might buy them drinks because I like them, and that they have bought me some when you were not there to watch us, and spoil the evening with your gloom. Because they _like_ me. Just because you happen to suck at making friends does not mean I'm the same! And I'd rather be broke than have my purse tight and full with no one to share a coin with!

\- I'm not answering that."

My voice had come out low, and I grabbed my tools, fighting back the stinging of my eyes – but my brother wasn't ready to let go.

"Aye, Thorin. Don't. Because I don't want your opinion, and your vision of things – not today, and actually never! No one does! And I don't want your life of duty and reason and gloom and suspicion, I'd rather choose Dragon-fire at once!"

My small purse crashed into Frerin's face with a dull thud, before falling on the ground, where it opened, spilling its coins. I was breathing fast, my chest heaving and my hands shaking, and Frerin just stared at me, rubbing his cheek. And then he hurled himself at me.

None of us shouted. And we both managed to be careful enough to avoid the fire, its embers and the sharp tools and weapons hanging around. But we fought fiercely, with fists and feet, until I had him pinned down, and I was about to open my mouth when his knee shot up between my legs, hitting my groin violently.

It was a forbidden move – and as pain blossomed in my lower body in a way I had never experienced before, causing me to double up, rolling off Frerin and gasping, my breath gone and my eyes watering, I dimly thought I knew why now.

It hurt so much I felt like gagging. I was curled up, hands pressed against my groin, and I didn't even care fore the shame, for the tears that were streaming freely down my cheeks – it felt like being clawed in two...

"Thorin – Thorin, I'm sorry… I never meant to hit you there, I aimed for your stomach, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Somehow my brother's panicked voice got through my pain, but I couldn't react – I could just curl up even more, trying to have air reaching my lungs again. Frerin circled my shoulders, and I dearly wanted to shake him off, but it just _hurt_. There was no way around it. I felt like I'd never be able to stand up, let alone to walk. There was no way to stop tears streaming from my eyes, but I finally managed to take in a shaky breath.

"Low… blow...", I choked out.

"I'm so, so sorry, Thorin. Please. I never ever meant to hurt you – not in that way. You can… you can hit back if you want."

I wiped my eyes, slowly. I was still kneeling on the ground, hunched over and nauseous, but I was beginning to feel alive again – and I finally shrugged my brother off, my breath coming out in small gasps.

"Pick them up. The coins. Take them… I don't care. Just leave."

I watched him pick the coins up, one by one, and slip them into the purse. Frerin placed it back on the table, then he turned towards me, and there were tears in his eyes as well.

"You know… You never asked for the real reason. It's true, I'm broke. But it wasn't that. The truth is that… for whatever stupid reason… I _do_ need a pint with my brother, every now and then, and feel he's as foolish as I am. That life is still fun."

I didn't move. I just closed my eyes. I felt bruised and hurt, and I only wanted him to go. But he never did. Instead, he sat down next to me and dragged me against him, hugging me tightly.

"Please forgive me, Thorin. Because I never will.

\- What you said… before..."

My voice was tiny but it was coming back. It was a start, and I swallowed thickly, before I whispered:

"I'm… not keeping these coins because I'm stingy. I'm not… saving them for my own fun. I'm not… I'm not hoarding them like grandfather did."

My hands curled up in fists so as to hide their tremble, and I raised my knees, resting my face against them. It was getting late, and I should be closing the forge, but I couldn't move.

"Oh, Thorin… Goodness… Thorin, surely, you know I never meant _that_..."

Frerin's fingers were trailing through my hair, his arm tightly wrapped around my waist and his face resting against my shoulder.

"I just meant to have a drink with you and the others. And I messed up. I was careless, stupid and mean. And I am really, really sorry."

I did not answer. I just buried my face even deeper in my knees. There were no words to explain – no words to say how hard it was to know it would never be enough. Never enough to balance off the costs, never enough to please my grandfather properly.

He would always point out just how much I had been cheated out by these Men – would growl about the low work I was taking, the shabby state of my clothes, and the fact that my hair lacked every proper bead and braid. No matter how hard my father and Balin tried to even his moods out, managing the settlement's resources the best they could – it was never enough. Because we would need another pony, and Dís another set of clothes, and Frerin new tools – there was always something. Something making me wish I could work longer, harder, and earn more – enough to feel safe. From fate, from winter, and from my grandfather's scorn.

But I could not tell Frerin. He would just brush these words away. He never listened to our grandfather, and just made sure to avoid him, spending time with his friends instead. And he was probably right – and better off… but I felt unable to do the same. I could not.

The doorbell chimed again, and I jerked up and brushed my eyes, but my brother was having none of that and growled, brashly:

"We are closed, can't you see?!

\- Oh aye? And how am I supposed to see that, when there's still light in there and no sign?"

Dwalin closed the door, turned the sign and made for the fire, quickly dousing it, making sure the embers were properly gathered. It had not taken him more than a few seconds to take us in, and when the forge was cleared up he simply sat down on my other side, resting his hand on my knee.

"Care to explain what happened here? Can't remember such a thunderstorm wrecking a forge, not even when I was working with you. And you look like… well…"

Dwalin cleared his throat, and just patted my knee.

"You both argued", he stated, in the end, since no sound came from me, while Frerin was playing with the hem of his shirt. "And you fought. Was he hurt?", he asked my brother – and I shook my head at the same time Frerin blushed and cleared his throat.

"Right", Dwalin sighed. "Care to tell where? Head, chest, pride?

\- Watch it", I hissed, and Frerin huffed.

"Crotch", my brother whispered, in the end, and I glared at him through barely dried lashes.

"You _bugger_...", Dwalin let out, genuinely shocked, and then his hand moved to my shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You're alright?

\- He hasn't stood up so far. And he's been that white ever since. Will he be all right?

\- Well, I wouldn't vouch for future children...", Dwalin grunted, with a wink.

"Will you both stop it? I'm still there, you know!", I growled. "No need to discuss that… _that kind of thing_ above my head!

\- Aye, _uzbadê_. Not a word more about your royal jewels, I promise.

\- I hate you", I groaned, burying my face against my knees once more.

"Sounds more like him", Frerin whispered, and I just groaned again.

"Wasn't there a talk about going to the pub?", Dwalin asked, after a while – he had brought me some water, and a wet handkerchief to wipe my face. "I could fancy it. Would be a welcome change. Besides, I have still a bit of coins left from my Name's day."

His face had softened, and I knew he was thinking of his parents, who had always made sure to send him a Raven with a small parcel full of gifts.

"I would, if I had coins. It will have to wait for the end of the month, though", Frerin said, firmly.

"Not if I treat you. Come on – they just brewed a special Midsummer beer, I saw the sign on the tavern's window, looks nice. Full of spices."

He was rubbing my shoulder and I knew he was talking to us both.

"You don't have to, Dwalin", I whispered, but he just huffed.

"Aye, I'm aware of that. It's just that it's my way to spend a nice evening with my beloved cousins. Frerin for the chat and you…"

He paused, and it was my turn to huff, getting up with a wince. I was still sore, and it was all I could do not to press my hand against my groin, clenching it into a fist instead. Dwalin's brown eyes softened, and he smiled at me.

"And you for the balance", he said firmly.

"The balance?"

I was wincing again, both from the pain and his words. But I would be able to move, and to walk, and to hide it from my father and Dís, and this was enough.

"Yeah. It's not the same without you. Besides, you look terrible. And every bad day deserves to be outbalanced by a nice evening."

With these words, he entwined his arm with mine and to lead me out of the forge. Frerin was carrying my hammer and my chisel, and I closed the door behind me, tucking the key back in my purse – before wordlessly taking my tools back.

I spent the first mile fighting back a limp – and Dwalin and Frerin were kind enough to do the talking, my brother sharing the last apprentice-gossips with us, and Dwalin rumbling back an answer, every now and then.

The sun was setting, and sent long shadows on the hills and paths we were crossing. We left the village where I worked behind, and crossed the other, where Frerin's friends soon caught up on us.

"Oí, charmer!"

I couldn't hold back a wince when I recognised the Dwarfling joining our circle – his name was Bergur, and he was working as a dyer. His nails were never entirely free from the pigments he kept crushing and swirling – and I knew he had to deal with awful stenches and toxic vapours regularly, but I couldn't bring myself to like him. He was tall, stout, of Dwalin's age, and he was so cocksure and full of himself I had caught myself clenching my jaw fiercely to prevent myself from snarling – I _hated_ the way he was talking to Frerin, I hated the way he was filling his head with nonsense… and I hated the way he called him _charmer_.

Most of all, though – I hated the way my little brother beamed whenever he was seeing him, and the pains he was taking to earn his friendship. Because Bergur was looking down on royalty, and seemed to relish the way we were all slaving away.

"Hi Bergur! We are going – we are coming tonight! How was your day?

\- Uff...", Bergur rolled his eyes. "Don't mention it. Hateful. If anyone says the word _rue_ again, I think I'll scream…

\- Same for me, don't tell me about _oak_ and _pine_ and…

\- Tell me about _beer_ ", Bergur said, and Frerin laughed, entwining his arm with his, and waving at another Dwarfling who was huffing and puffing, trying to catch up with us.

"You could have waited", Althi said, accusingly, but Bergur just laughed.

"I didn't want to wait in front of your bloody shop… Got the joke, mate – _bloody_?

\- I don't see how that's supposed to be funny", Althi growled, quite good-humouredly – he was an apprentice in his own father's shop, skinning furs. "Just to remind you – I won't be doing that all my life. My father was a tailor, in Erebor. A haberdasher, even.

\- So?", Bergur shrugged, and Althi gave him a nudge.

"So. One day I'll be as well. Hi, Dwalin. Hi, Thorin."

He said the last words quietly – and then his eyebrows shot up, taking my face in, but I just grounded out "Hi", and he let me be. Althi always let me be – somehow all it took was to look at him for more than two seconds. He was a hard-working boy, and I didn't mind him – but though he was always at ease with Frerin, he seemed completely unable to do so with me. I knew he would have rather walked around than with me, much like he'd do with my father or grandfather, and that we would never ever be close, no matter what we might have shared otherwise.

"Wait for us, wait for us!"

Eikin and Elspa soon joined us – he was training to be a grocer in his father's shop, while she hoped to become a salter, already helping Óin with his supplies in chemicals and plants. Both were twins, and something of an oddity – yet that had soon been forgotten in Dunland, where nothing was as Dwarven as it should have been anyway.

"Hi everyone, who's in for tonight?"

I soon lost track of the conversation. I did not really listen to their banter, focused on the pain that was slowly dimming between my legs, and mentally adding up how much I had earned this day, wondering if I shouldn't try to bring down the cost of the rent. The forge was shabby, and the furnace a joke, surely I could…

"You alright?"

I startled, almost glaring at Elspa who was facing me, an impertinent look on her long-nosed face that was currently split in two by a grin. I didn't trust her. I never knew if she was being nice or just making fun of me – I could tell with others, but not with her.

"You're white as a sheet.

\- Headache."

I had muttered the word and it just made her grin wider. She swept her gaze all over my body, and she was pert enough to let it linger just on the part I was really wanting to forget – and then she just shrugged, and said : "Unlucky, that." before catching up with her brother and friends. And I decided I disliked her. Almost as much as Bergur.

"Loosen up, sparrow", Dwalin said, quietly. "It's not showing."

I unclenched my teeth, realising I had been gritting them so hard my jaw was hurting. He smiled at me and squeezed my arm, briefly. And suddenly I wished, fervently, that it could just be us. Him, Frerin, Dís, Balin and me. Just us, no one else. I wasn't up to anyone else.

But Dwalin was really looking forward to it – I knew he was. He wouldn't have mentioned the beer otherwise, and he never ever asked for anything. He was my best friend – pretty much my _only_ friend save Balin. Of course I would go. I would go to that accursed pub and drink a pint and sit there as long as he would want me to – provided that no one asked me to do the talking.


	3. Chapter 3

**The King of Carven Stone : Part VII**

 **A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)**

 **2.**

And so evening found us in the pub indeed, sitting close to each other on a long table those Men had freed for us – we were not the only Dwarves present, but the elders minded their own business, avoiding our banter and chatter, and rightly so.

I had withdrawn in a corner, sitting close to Dwalin, and having Elspa on my left, to my very dismay. The only one I would have been glad to talk with was Ganar, a young farrier who was tending to the ponies, now that our settlement counted a fair amount of them. I did not know why, but his quiet ways with them had something soothing – I had the dim feeling that someone who was so gentle with ponies was probably kind to his kinsmen as well. Perhaps I also liked him because he did not talk much – but he had a nice and pleasant voice, and loved to sing.

That evening, however, I was stuck with Elspa, who made a point on asking me about my _headache_ , insufferable as she was. She kept elbowing me, or getting tangled with my legs – to the point that I had slowly begun to recoil towards Dwalin, and would soon be sitting on his lap, if she went on like this.

I took a big sip of ale – it was spicy, and strong, and cool. It was good. But not good enough to block out Bergur's voice – he had been clamouring about work, about the ale, about pretty much _everything_ , and I was fed up with him.

"How do you find the ale?", Dwalin asked me, with a twinkle in his eyes that included my neighbour in the question.

"It is good. _The ale_ ", I answered, pointedly, cursing myself for the blush that was beginning to creep up my ears – once more, she had somehow twisted on the bench and her leg had brushed mine: it was all I could do not to leap up.

"Good, sparrow. Because I'm about to get you another."

Dwalin was not my best friend. Dwalin was a terrible, mean, and awful _traitor_. I watched him get up, and head for the counter, and I mentally cursed him blue.

"Why does he call you _sparrow_?"

I did not dislike Elspa – I hated her. Of course, her question had not got unnoticed, and I could see a smirk curling up Bergur's lips. Eikin took a sip of his tankard, obviously expecting a story, and Althi was gazing at me, unabashedly for once. I looked at Frerin for support, but he just smiled at me.

"Uhm…

\- Frerin?"

She had turned towards him, elbowing me in the meantime, and this time I did not bother about manners – I just slid on the bench, determined to get away from her.

"You know what, Elspa?", my brother said, completely at ease, pausing to take a sip from his tankard. "I'm afraid I have no idea where it came from.

\- But Dwalin must know, surely", she said, somewhat annoyed.

"Then let's ask him", Bergur threw in, and as Dwalin came, setting up another tankard in front of me, Frerin, and keeping one for himself, he added : "Oí, Dwalin! Why do you call Thorin _sparrow_? Is it some kind of sweet word? It's such a little bird…"

I tensed as the twins began to giggle – but Althi hid his face in his tankard, while Ganar frowned slightly, not uttering a word. Dwalin sat down next to me, took a sip of ale, and then his brown eyes swept Bergur's face, up and down.

"I call him _sparrow_ so that idiots can talk, and ask themselves questions."

I promptly buried my face in my own tankard, fighting back a smile.

"Hey. Get down your high horse at once!", Bergur said hotly.

"Then stop insinuating things you clearly have no idea of", Dwalin answered, and the words were dealt with the sweetest smile he could bestow, as he raised his tankard towards him. "Cheers, mate."

Bergur probably sensed the threat – I was, but then, I had known Dwalin half my life, and could read his body-language as well as my siblings'. He just took a sip of ale, and dropped the subject, switching to another favourite of his, namely the innkeeper's servant, and her attributes – seen, unseen, and imagined.

They talked themselves warm through another tankard, and I was truly glad when I was gifted with a third, because I couldn't stand it. I was shocked at Eikin for not ordering his sister away, but Elspa did not seem to mind, and was laughing heartily. She had stopped bumping into me, Mahal be praised, but I didn't like that she had somehow managed to sweep places with her brother, and seemed to be elbowing Frerin instead.

Not that he seemed to bother. He seemed quite pleased about it, and smiled at her – that gentle, warm smile he was gifting Dís every now and then. And when she claimed she was tired, and had more than enough of ale, leaning her head against his shoulder, Frerin just looked at Eikin, briefly, and let her make herself comfortable against him.

"I bet her breasts are just as round as they look…

\- Will you cut it, Bergur?", Ganar said, somewhat annoyed, but Althi snorted, and added, completely unexpectedly:

"I'm sure they are not. Believe me. I've seen enough underwear in my father's shop – you've no idea how clothes can help women to lie. That corset just pushes them up."

Everybody roared with laughter, and even Dwalin let out a huff. I took another sip – I was beginning to feel slightly sick. I didn't like that kind of talk, I didn't like the way it made me unable to look at that poor woman – and even at Elspa, in a way – and most of all, I didn't like the sinking feeling in my stomach. The one telling me I was probably the only one who had never bothered to look at the woman's breasts in the first place.

"What do you think, Thorin?"

Of course it had to be Bergur. Of course he had spotted my unease, the fact that I wasn't saying a word, desperately wishing to be able to find some pretext to leave, finally.

"Do you think she pushes them up? Would you like to ask her? I'm sure you're quite the expert, aren't you – you must be such a sweet little bird with the ladies, with your blue eyes and fine manners and soft hair…

\- Bergur!", Frerin threw in, somewhat indignantly, but the fact that Elspa was giggling in his very shoulder drowned his protest, taking his attention away.

"Aren't you, Thorin? Aren't you their little bird? Or perhaps..."

Dwalin growled, but I did not want him to come to my rescue. Not this time, not again. I was almost grown-up, I could handle it. And so I clenched my hands around my tankard and just said, very quietly, wondering why the words were suddenly so difficult to frame:

"I'm no one's bird."

Somehow it just made them howl in laughter. All of them – even Dwalin could not suppress a small smile, and deep inside I could see how absurd it sounded, but it still hurt. It hurt, and I took a few long sips to try and bury it back where it belonged.

"Have you even _looked_ at a woman before?"

They were giggling now. They were drunk – Althi clearly was, and the twins as well. The rest… I wasn't so sure. I didn't really care. I looked down at my tankard, thinking I had. Of course I had. I had looked at some women long enough to love them, and cherish everything about them – but they were all sacred, and untouchable, and I barely dared to think of them here, for surely they would be sullied. I still did, though – during a few seconds I thought of them: my mother, and Dwalin's mother – and Itô, whirling her axe like a dancer, and leaving her ring to me. And my sister. My precious little Dís, my treasure I could not bear to be talked of in that horrible way…

Silence is a wonderful way to quieten drunks, and to drive their attention away from you. I am not sure I learned it that night – I was so young still, and so overwhelmed… Yet it was true that evening as well.

"You know what that Man told me, when I bought him some oat for the ponies?"

Ganar had spoken, softly, and they all giggled, probably expecting some saucy joke. I braced myself, and decided I might as well empty my tankard straight away.

"They are arming themselves, in Tharbad. They are buying weapons, and ponies, and sailing down the river, Mahal knows why."

The twins and Bergur's annoyed groans being the only answer he received, Ganar soon dropped the subject, which returned to the poor maid. I probably should have thanked him – because at least, they had forgotten about me, and because he might have been aiming just for that. But the words seemed too complicated to frame, besides my head was beginning to ache, and I really, really needed to pass water.

It was as good a reason as any to leave, squeezing Dwalin's shoulder and muttering something between "thank you" and "I'm out". I staggered outside, towards the woods and trees, confusingly remembering something about privacy. I felt slow, and somewhat dizzy, but the air was crisp and this and my hurting bladder soon reminded me why I had come here for in the first place.

I hissed as I unlaced my pants – Frerin's blow had left its mark, and pain throbbed steadily, but I still managed to pass water, and a fair amount of it, too. It felt so silent, here… It soothed my aching head, and some of the sinking feeling I had tried to swallow back with my pints.

I took a few steps further, towards a small rock where I sat down, and then I gazed up towards the sky, searching for the moon. I found stars instead – it was dark enough for them to shine in their full glory, and I was left gazing at the Hunter, at the perfect line of his belt, and the sword hanging there, and the beautiful arc of his shield.

"Other cultures describe it rather as a bow, laddie", Balin had told me once – long ago, in a time where maps and books could be scattered on desks and tables, and stars being gazed at sheltered by stone walls. "They like to imagine this is the way he hunts.

\- But Orin's no Elf, Balin… And it really looks like a shield.

\- Then so be it, lad..."

He had smiled. He had not tried to convince me, or change me. He had just ruffled my hair, and I had drawn the constellation dutifully, in the small notebook I used for stargazing. And I… I had been happy. I had been oblivious of everything else – had never sought anyone out but him, or my father, or my siblings… I had just been content.

But as I looked up at the skies, finding the Hunter once more, with his confident gait and daring shield – I was suddenly overcome by the feeling that somehow, I had missed the race. Here I was, cowering on a small stone, half-drunk, and hurt in the very part of my body that was supposed to make a Dwarf of me – it was so ridiculous. I might have a beard, but I was not even half grown-up. I had no idea what it was that spurred all these boys, no clue of that game that scared me – because I had missed the race, dreamed through these years where they had all begun to play. Because I was too busy trying to step into my grandfather's steps, and my father's...

There I was, lost somewhere in Dunland's darkness, working like a blacksmith when I had begun to train for silver-craft, unsettled by the banter of boys I would never have truly met in Erebor – confident boys, brash boys, _despising me_ for the bore I was…

Bringing back every single coin to my father, afraid to fail him and my grandfather, afraid not to match their expectations, and rightly so… I was no more than a dutiful child, a small boy – not a daring, confident Hunter, why, I had never even truly left the settlement's protection… I was just making nails, and ploughs, and knives, not even proper swords...

 _They are arming themselves, in Tharbad. Mahal knows why…_

 _Arming themselves… Arming…_

"I have to leave, Orin", I whispered. "I have to leave this place. I cannot stay here and have you watch at all that I have not become."

The stars blurred slightly, and twinkled, and I wondered if he was answering.

"You alright? Who on Arda are you talking to?"

I flinched and turned, staggering back on my feet – and Dwalin's frown softened as he took a few steps towards me.

"Oh Thorin..."

Orin had not answered. Of course he had not. The stars had just seemed to shift because my eyes kept spilling that day – I wiped my cheeks, fiercely, hating myself more with every heartbeat. I was still feeling dizzy, and somehow every bit of control I usually managed to have upon myself seemed gone, dissolved into the tankards I had drunk.

"Thank you for the beer", I managed to whisper, before his hands found my shoulders and steadied me. "I need to sit down."

That small evidence had made itself very clear during the last few seconds – and I promptly let myself sink back on the stone. Dwalin's hand never left my shoulders, and he crouched down, his eyes never leaving my face.

"I'm just… drunk. It's all right. You can… go back. Go back, Dwalin.

\- It's not alright", Dwalin said firmly, but there was gentleness in his voice as well. "I'm not leaving you here when you're not able to stand. And talking to… whom, actually?

\- No one. Just go back. Please."

I screwed my eyes shut, gripping the stone's edge. I just wanted the world to stop spinning. Stop shifting and hurling me around. I wanted to be able to grasp something that wouldn't crumble – something solid, something I could be proud of.

"They all left. I sent them home – they had enough drinks for a whole week. They all assumed you had gone home – your brother included.

\- Good. They're right.

\- No. They're not. Thorin."

My face must have crumbled then, even with my eyes shut, because he cradled me against him, dragging my face against his chest.

"I'm just drunk", I whispered, but Dwalin simply rubbed my back.

"You are. But you are also having a bad evening after a bad day – and that's not what I wanted. That's really not what I wanted.

\- It's not… I had a good evening. _Am having_.

\- Says he, weeping quietly in my tunic.

\- Do you have to point it out?!"

There was a fierceness in my voice that stilled Dwalin's hand on my back. I was still biting back a sob, and it took me a few breaths to go on:

"Can't you just… Can't you just _leave – me – alone_? Or at least fake it – just pretend, once in a while, that you don't see it when I… Because I do! I leave you the spar- the _space_ you need, whenever you are low! I don't come crashing down your will- your _walls_ … I don't point out your eyes are shining whenever you get a Raven – I just wait for you to find me once you're ready!

\- Yes, you do."

Dwalin's voice was very quiet. He was still holding me, and though he wasn't brushing my back anymore, he wasn't pushing me away either.

"But… that's because I seek you out. In the end. I seek you out, Thorin. And you never do. Never. You just close off, and leave.

\- Yes", I spat out, full of self-hatred. "Because _maybe_ , Dwalin, there are some things I just _don't want to discuss_!"

He let go of me then, and took a step back, his eyes full of hurt.

"Sorry, Thorin. Never meant to pry. See you tomorrow."

He turned then, and marched off, leaving me sitting there with a heavy heart and a churning stomach. It took a lot of will and coordination to get up, and even more to stumble after him. But I did. And the fact that I was swaying wasn't the reason why I clung to his wrist. I wanted to apologize. I wanted him to stop hurting.

"You know, you're an odd one", Dwalin answered, and his eyes were shining. "You snap, you lash out, until I draw back. And just when I think I'm done, that it's enough – there you come, and you say you care. I'm not sure the hurt is worth it, Thorin..."

He brushed his eyes as fiercely as I had, and I let go of his wrist. I was feeling cold, and sick, and completely sober suddenly – even though my legs seemed suddenly made of lead.

"It is not", I whispered. "I told you so.

\- Oh spare me, Thorin!"

He huffed, shaking his head angrily and glaring at the sky.

"I wasn't talking of _that_. It's my decision, it's my choice, and Mahal knows it was the right one. Be it only to face myself, and be able to curse my brother in peace."

I sat down on the cold ground then. I wasn't sober. At all. I wasn't able to stand – wasn't able to look him in the face. He was almost a grown Dwarrow, he was strong, kind, able and truly, truly worthy. He was brave, and at ease with his mind and body.

And I had failed him in every possible way.

"Hey. Look at me. Thorin. You can't just collapse here. It might be summer but the nights are still cold. Hey. Lift your face. Lift your face or I'll slap you.

\- Do", I groaned. I was feeling so sick… I just wanted to rest my face against my knees, never to raise it again.

"Hey…"

He was lifting my face gently, his hand carding through my hair, brushing back my braids.

"It's my fault. I might have forgotten to tell you that they brew it strongly. I just wanted you to get tipsy. To feel a bit lighter.

\- 't's alright", I slurred. "You're a good friend, Dwalin.

\- So are you. Thorin. I don't want you to think you're unworthy, alright?

\- 'lright. Just. Dwalin. I think 'may… 'm not feeling…"

He instantly wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me up as my stomach heaved. Earth and sky seemed to tumble together, and Dwalin held my hair back, while I was throwing up the last two tankards I had swallowed. I did so quickly, and without much noise. At least that was what I hoped, through the mist that had invaded my mind, turning my body to churning lead.

I was shivering when I was done, but I was feeling slightly better. Dwalin gently nudged me up, and half-dragged, half-carried me to the small brooklet running nearby.

"There. Have a few sips. It was a bit too strong, but most of it is gone now."

I obeyed, rinsing my mouth and face. Dwalin made me lie down afterwards, pulling my head on his knees, and his hand stroked my forehead, resting on my hair.

"'m sorry, Dwalin.

\- Shhh. Lie down. You're still all sweaty. Sorry for pointing it out, it's just true."

I closed my eyes, searching for his other hand. I placed it against my stomach – it was warm and soothing, easing the ache lingering inside, and helping my shivers to ebb.

"'m falling 'sleep.

\- You might", Dwalin smiled. "It's okay. Lie still for a while.

\- 'm sorry.

\- Stop ranting, Thorin. You already said so.

\- 'mean it. 'm sorry. Said awful things to you.

\- It's alright. You were just hurt."

My breathing eased, then, and I buried my face deeper against his thigh. The nausea has gone, as well as the sick feeling in my stomach. Now I was simply feeling bone-tired, and a bit cold. I guess this is why it took me a while to make out his words – and when I did, I turned my face towards him, feeling his fingers card gently through my hair.

"I was just _drunk_ , Dwalin", I whispered, but he simply smiled.

"Not sure you knew that feeling before, Thorin."

I raised up my knees, slightly, and let out a small groan.

"Not fair...", I whispered. "It's true, though. I never drank myself sick before. I swear.

\- Hey. I know that. I've known you half my life, remember?"

There was so much warmth in his voice, and in his eyes. It was true, we were friends for almost sixteen years now. Almost half of my life. And I could not begin to think how to live without him.

"I wouldn't have gone. You know that, do you?"

Dwalin's gaze was earnest, and his hand in my hair had stilled. I placed my fingers on the hand resting on my stomach, making myself a belt with our arms entwined. Thinking it was warmer, and more precious than Orin's, even though it was not made of stars.

And that I was unable to answer him with the "yes" he expected – because I _knew_ , deep inside, that I did not deserve him. That I was just stumbling after him, because I did not have his wisdom, his quiet way to look at things and take them as they were. That I kept seeing what I had not, yearning for something brighter, purer… that I desperately wanted my life to be different. That I wished I could be different, or at least gone from here, and that I had just found a way to escape – but that it was mad, and unworthy of the son I was and had to remain.

Dwalin was frowning now, and his fingers had resumed their curves in my hair – more to ground himself than me, though.

"Thorin… Mahal, you don't have to prove me anything, if that's what this is all about. You don't have to prove _anyone_ anything."

I turned my head slightly, then. Gazing at the brooklet where I could see a faint glimmer of the stars above – those stars I would never reach, try as I might.

"If this is about them teasing you… they are no more than silly boys, Thorin. Trying to prove themselves they're big, comparing their axes and bragging about how theirs is so much sharper. It's just big talk. Nothing behind it. None of that matters, sparrow."

My face was still averted, and I was glad for it. Because I still hurt, even after all that. Because knowing it did not matter wasn't making it better.

 _I am no one's bird. I'm too silly, too uptight, too scared. I don't want anyone to touch me, to think about me and talk about me like that. I want no one near, no one._

"You have nothing to prove. Nothing to blush for. Thorin, surely – surely even you must see that. Sparrow… you led your people to safety, and you were barely older than Dís is now."

I tensed. It was not safe to thread these grounds. There were days where I struggled to believe it had really happened – the Dragon, the Elvenking, the ashes and embers, the long road along the river, the Orcs and the ice… It made my chest feel tight, and my palms sweat – because it also called forth death, and my father's madness, and the way my grandfather had seemed so cruel and distant…

There were days just like this, where the only thing I wanted was to forget. Because it had made me age, and filled me with so much anguish that there were nights were I was still waking up sweat-drenched and trembling. And at the same time, I was terrified to forget. Forgetting this meant forgetting Erebor, and my mother, who I had been and where I came from – I could not share it, not anymore, but it was still part of myself.

It made me feel so lonely.

And I was not sure to be able to find the words to tell Dwalin. Not sure he could understand.

"I don't fit in, Dwalin", I said instead, very quietly.

He trailed his fingers through my hair, staying silent for long minutes, and I leaned my cheek against his thigh.

"No. You don't. But that's not because you're unworthy. It's because… there's no space left for nonsense in there."

He rubbed my skull with his knuckles, and then he resumed stroking my hair.

"You care so much, about everyone. About things that really matter, things so serious I wish you could stop dwelling upon them, every once in a while. It leaves no space for… childish things. It frightens them. Puzzles them. That's why they tease you. It's their own way to reassure themselves they are still someone.

\- I'm such a bore… He said so. They all said so.

\- Well, I didn't", Dwalin replied, firmly. " _Boring_ is certainly the least thing I could call you – simply because I absolutely never know what's going to happen next, with you.

\- I don't want to go on like this. I don't want to be the boring son who's bringing in the coins and swallowing everything… It's too easy… It's just too easy for them, Dwalin… I know I should be proud… I know that's what dutiful sons do, and that it's enough for every Dwarf of honour, but I… I can't go on like this."

I had sat up, still averting my face, because all the pain and shame I had felt ever since Frerin had set foot into the forge was finally pouring out. I had tried to forgive him, and to replace his words as the childish outburst they were. But I couldn't help thinking there was some truth in them, and it hurt.

"Mahal, Thorin. I've been waiting for you to say so for at least two years."

I let my arm sink in surprise, and gazed at him – but Dwalin was unmistakably smiling. A broad, warm grin that was lightening his whole face.

"W-what?

\- Don't mistake my words, Thorin. I love your siblings. I deeply respect your father, and your grandfather. But… I'm glad you finally see that they cannot take you for granted. That you plan to tell them – and especially you lovely _brat_ of a brother – that they will have to fend for themselves for a few months.

\- How do you… How do you know?

\- What? That you're planning to leave?"

I nodded, feeling lighter than I had in days, months even – it was as if something sitting heavily on my chest had been removed, leaving me able to breathe truly.

"Well… Was it the way you turned completely still when that fellow mentioned Tharbad? Or… the way you were mentally beating yourself to a pulp just now, because you were oh-so-selfish in allowing yourself to have the tiniest of dreams? Or… the way you were telling me very gravely you weren't worth a copper coin, just to prevent me from following you along, because you were scared I wouldn't want that? Or…

\- Stop it. Dwalin."

He was still grinning broadly, and I placed my hand flat on his mouth, determined to gag him. He wrapped his arm around my waist and tugged, hardly, and as he crushed me against him I told him, very gravely:

"I hate you. I really do."

He tugged again and we ended up tumbling into the grass, and I was laughing just like he was, because I was finally feeling light and young again. Because I had found a silver-line – a way not stay here chained to a forge I hated, for a few copper coins.

I would go to Tharbad.

I would offer my skills to these Men, because I knew how to shape swords, and shields, and daggers, and armours. I would see more than this tiny settlement, and these few filthy villages. I would see Tharbad, its bridges and houses, and all the travellers it harboured – and I would win enough to please my grandfather tenfold and shut my brother's and his friends' mouths for good… but above all, I would live through discoveries and adventures, and I would have Dwalin with me.

I did not care how many arguments and words it would cost me to have with my father. I was thirty-six years old, I could begin to fend for myself, I could not always be kept here, chained at my grandfather's side. There was a better way, a worthier way, to try and make it finally _enough_.

To make me proud of who I was once more.

"You know… I can't remember", Dwalin said softly, once our fit had passed and we were simply lying there, in the grass, gazing up at the sky.

"What?", I asked, bending my head so that it touched his shoulder.

"The last time I heard you laugh like this. I'm so glad. So glad you came stumbling after me."

I elbowed him, but I was smiling. Because Orin was definitely twinkling in a very suspicious way. Almost winking at me.

"I'm glad too. I have no chance to make ' _adad_ agree if you're not part of the journey."

Dwalin grunted, shrugging his shoulder to give my face a nudge. We lay there silently for a few minutes, and then I turned, resting an elbow on the ground so as to lift my body slightly.

"Dwalin… It's getting very late. I think we should go back. And…

\- Yes. And yes. You can sleep in our spare bed. So that you'll have the satisfaction of walking into your house tomorrow morning, and have a look at Frerin's puzzled face.

\- You're _evil_.

\- And you're smiling."

I was. I couldn't stop. I was so happy. I felt brave, and mischievous, and daring. I felt _alive_ , alive in a way I hadn't dreamt to feel, especially not on a day like this. We left the brooklet, and the forest, and walked the half-mile towards Dwalin's house quietly, and I couldn't stop repeating the words in my head, not even when I slipped at last under the covers on Dwalin's spare-bed, exhausted beyond measure.

 _They are arming themselves, in Tharbad. Which means they need a blacksmith, and probably more than one. And I will be going there. With Dwalin._

I would do whatever was needed to get there, and try my luck in Tharbad.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : _I really hope you will like this new chapter. It is a completely headcanon-part of Thorin's life, and as such, it is debatable. What I say about geographical Tharbad is canon, but the Men living there are entirely of my invention. It has taken a lot of researches, but ultimately, I had fun. I hope you will have too - that's the point of it all._

 _Take care, and till soon! Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part VII**

 **A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)**

 **3.**

Surety carries a form of special strength. Not the kind that goes with self-assurance, firm beliefs or safety – but the feeling of being in the right, when heart, mind and Soul have the same focus. When the things you do ring true to yourself, when they involve no one but you – the path seems somehow cleared of obstacles.

It is a strange rule – as if others _knew_ they have no strength, no reason and no right to stop you. Or perhaps we are just so sure, in these moments, that we forget to see the obstacles, ground them mentally to dust – and that this small madness gives us the courage to set out…

I had prepared myself for a bitter fight – against my grandfather, against my father, perhaps even against Balin. I had sharpened my replies, forcing myself to see the shabby forge where I was forced to work before my inner eye, reminding myself that I had to do better than that, that I couldn't just _rust_ here, making knives and nails for almost nothing.

They could not keep me there and chain me, claiming copper coins from me and forbidding me to look for silver. I was no apprentice anymore, I had learnt my trade – I had proved them I could be relied upon. And so one morning I let out the words, quivering with anticipation, determined to hold firm under my grandfather's scorn, and my father's disappointment.

"I have decided to go to Tharbad."

And I explained. About the need for weapons, about the work waiting there for able blacksmiths. About the money I would be able to bring back, if I could just be spared for a few months.

I spoke with words laced with the hope one only feels in youth, with a quiet determination hiding away the fire curling in my gut, in my chest – the one telling me I was _alive_ , with a dream and a purpose no one could take from me.

There was surprise, in Thrór's gaze – but he stayed silent. There was sadness in my father's eye, but also something close to pride, and he answered softly:

"You will not be swayed, _dashat_ , will you?"

I looked at my grandfather, who was frowning silently, the accounts he was discussing with Thráin spread on the table before him, and then I turned towards my father.

"No. I will not, ' _adad_.

\- Then we shall think about it", Thráin said quietly, smoothing one of the papers – and I took his cue and bowed, leaving my grandfather's house with the strange feeling of emptiness that goes with a fight won too easily.

That day I worked tirelessly, losing myself completely in the forge – as if what I shaped had to be proof of my resolve. And that evening, once we had all washed and eaten, my father asked me quietly to fetch his pipe, and take a walk around the settlement with him. It was unusual enough to make Frerin frown, and I braced myself for his questions, but my father had a silent, calm form of authority that could be very intimidating – he gazed at him, and Frerin's mouth stayed shut.

I followed my father outside, and for a while we walked silently side by side. Thráin was following the settlement's outer wall, greeting the guards every now and then, but instead of rounding it entirely, he turned towards the hills, and took the small, narrow path leading through them.

I climbed behind him, wondering where he was heading, but Thráin did not explain and I didn't say a word, following quietly for half an hour, watching the summer sun set around us, turning the hills ablaze, breaking against rocks.

The path lead to the top of a hill where a rock was flat enough to be used as a bench. It was a solitary place, both soft and savage – soft because the hills were round, covered with heather and gorse, and savage because of its loneliness, and it exposure. It was no Mountain – but it was higher than our settlement. Closer to the sky, to the clouds – more rock than sand, or trees.

Wild, foreign – yet somehow closer to what we were than the woods and villages.

My father sat down on the bench, and after a while I did the same. The rough stone felt warm under my fingers, and the blazing rays of the dying sun threw scarlet reflections everywhere. It was beautiful. Silent. Peaceful.

Thráin lit his pipe and drew a few whiffs. And then he reached into his pocket, and produced another one, slightly smaller, but beautifully crafted, and filled it, before passing it quietly to me.

I gazed up at him, my fingers closing around it – and Thráin smiled.

"It is no bribe, _dashat_ ", he said, his voice soft. "Light it and have a smoke."

I thanked him, and for a while we just smoked in silence. The sun had vanished, and twilight was painting the hills with softer shades. I was feeling my father's warmth against my side, the quiet strength he embodied – and I realised it was the first time in years we were alone together, without my siblings or my grandfather.

"We are a quiet lot, you and me...", Thráin said, fondly. "Your brother would have painted the landscape anew with words. And your sister would already be gathering gorse and heather, and ask me to make a crown for her."

I smiled, and he added:

"They both thrive here. Their days are full – and they are happy, each one in their way.

\- Yes", I whispered. "They are."

Thráin circled my waist and held me, gazing at the settlement stretched at the foot of the hills.

"It is small", he said, in the end. "It is enough for children, and for the elderly. For apprentices as well. But for the warriors, and the craftsmen… I guess they feel enclosed. Caged. Iron calls to the warriors, and the craftsmen yearn for a decent match for their tools."

He paused, for a while.

"So do you, _dashat_. And it is natural, and just. The Maker breathed it into you, along with your skills. I have no wish to blunt them, no wish to keep you caged."

I leant into him at these words, and Thráin tightened his embrace around me.

"You shall go to Tharbad. It is a sensible decision, I had thought of sending some of the smiths there myself. The only thing I ask for is Balin and Dagur to accompany you there, and to help you getting settled. Tharbad was powerful once, but the city faces rougher days – I shall sleep better if Balin tells me you have found a roof, and decent work… but if this is what you want, you have my trust, Thorin."

I looked up at him, and he smiled.

"It is time for you to live through some things alone. And to live your age as well."

He touched my forehead with his, then. Bent his head until it met mine, his hands clasping my shoulders. And I closed my eyes, skin against skin, as the sun was setting around us, turning the hills ablaze.

' _Adad_ … Will he understand, now? Is it true, what they say, is it true he is waiting for me somewhere? Will he touch my forehead as he did back then, will his hands frame my face, telling me silently that I have his support, and his trust? Will he still see the son he loved in me, or has everything been broken, and lost, and faded away in the mists of the madness we shared…?

It is the same red sun, who once shone on a boy who had life before him still – yet now there is no fire left in me, no warmth, no purpose… The rays of the sun won't reach me anymore, because my light is spent, and I yearn for darkness and oblivion.

But I remember that evening, that warmth, that embrace… I can almost feel it – I was loved. I was wholly, and truly loved. And I knew it – that is why, no matter what he did, no matter how far he was removed from me and I from him, I never stopped loving him. Missing him.

' _Adad_ …

He kept his promise. He let us go, Dwalin and me – allowed us to set out. And so it came that, one day at the end of the summer, we set out on the Old South Road, with Dagur and Balin, away from the settlement, away from my siblings and family, heading north towards Tharbad.

Tharbad… The city I was imagining as a rougher, unpolished version of Dale I had loved so much – was it not a crossroad of roads and rivers? On the west, the Greenway led towards the Shire – that fateful place where all began, and that was but a name to me back then. South, the Greyflood River flowed west until it met the sea, and east stretched the road we came from. North, a road and two rivers lead towards Rivendell – and I would hear the Hoarwell and the Loudwater roar, running through its very walls, ages afterwards… Yet for us, Tharbad's taunts lay east, an everlasting call, despite darkness and fire, that we would follow, to our ruin: the road towards Eregion, and Moria – and the river leading to Mirrormere, where…

But I cannot think of it now. This is no tale of war, of horror and blood. These days still lay ahead, back then my sword and axe were sheathed – these were still years for hammer and chisel, years of shaping, of discovery. Years of becoming.

And there is a strange sweetness in reliving them, even now, when all is lost, when it seems so vain… I had forgotten how it felt like – how mighty one feels, when the sum of possibles lay stretched ahead, when nothing is written down in stone yet…

Let me linger for a while with Men – let me get lost in their crumbling city, in the vapours of their fenland. They are unfit for Dwarves – so far away from stone and marble, so weak and fragile… It seems but a dream now, fleeting like a whirl of smoke, but oh – let me linger there for a while, there is no evil gold in these memories, no hidden door, no impossible quest…

Tharbad is a forgotten name nowadays. The city has crumbled, has been abandoned, and the water and marshes have won, turning bridges and houses to ruins. Today, it is the realm of swans and herons, of reeds and water-lilies. Today, the stones sink in treacherous mud, and travellers make a wide berth around Tharbad, afraid of the fevers that spread there. Today, Tharbad is but a ford, where the river is slow and shallow, but wide, daring you to cross its lands unharmed.

And yet it is a name that has always held something for me. A name I could never hear without feeling that I had left a part of me there – making me forever partial to that doomed land. But perhaps I also felt that soft ache because I knew I witnessed the city's last struggle, its last stand against decay and oblivion – and how I understand that almost hopeless quiver…

To say that Tharbad was facing rougher days was an understatement – but my father knew what rough days were, and the shame of being born high and forced to stoop low. That is why Thráin never spoke a foul word against Tharbad – he merely told me its tale, so that I could understand.

Once a considerable garrison of soldiers, mariners and engineers, guarding the Great Royal Road towards Gondor, it had been left on its own ever since the days of Kings had ended in that realm. The Men living there, from both Bree and Dunland, were wild and struggling, desperate for wealth and power, determined to rebuild the bridge and become once more a place of thrive and importance.

"They are ignored by the kingdoms of Men – forgotten, or despised. There is no love nor care for their lands in Rohan, or Gondor. The Shire thrives without them, the Elves have left ages ago, and Men have worries elsewhere. But Tharbad is a crossroad – no doubt its Men seek to arm themselves so as to protect the trades they hope to rekindle there. Perhaps they also hold hopes oversea."

And Tharbad's hopes lay indeed in the lands across the sea – where Men hoped to sail, and bring back goods and riches… But I had yet to learn about Tharbad's trades – and when I entered its walls with my companions, I remember that my first thought was about water.

Water was everywhere.

It flowed under Tharbad's great bridge that stood over the Greyflood, it stretched across its outer walls and fortification in endless pools, where the sky seemed to melt into earth. Unlike Dale or Laketown, unlike the villages of Dunland, there was no hill nor mountain to rein the waters in, and as such, rather than letting itself be conquered by Men, stone after stone and wall after wall, it seemed to be the water which was slowly beginning to force the city to withdraw.

There it stood, cowering behind a great wall that plunged deep into the river, shielding it from the floods. However, in the warm summer, the water was still low, and the stones were covered with damp moss – green, lush, and almost unnatural.

No Mountain. No hill. No cave, no rock – flat land struggling against the water's might.

And yet, even though it was against each of our inclinations – Tharbad had something. Perhaps because its stones were old, perhaps because beneath the dampness, and the moss, the song they held was of longing, and of days long lost.

"Well, lads...", Balin said, once we had reached what seemed to be the centre, where stalls were laid around a tall fountain and where the bustle was so loud we had to stay close to hear each other. "Considering circumstances, and the season… I would advise you to decline lodgings on even ground. Heat rises, they say.

\- And the lower walls aren't even dry _now_ ", Dagur grumbled, touching one of the houses' walls with the tip of his boot, and letting out a huff. "Careful with the costs. Don't agree on any ceding, unless they are the ones furnishing coal, or I can tell you, you'll spend so many coins keeping the fire lit you won't earn much."

A good thing it was to have Dagur and Balin with us – Dagur because of his fierce looks, and the many weapons he had to display, so as to warrant the quality of our craft. And Balin because his shrewd mind was never once fooled, despite his manners, causing him to discard several lodgings with a polite bow, always waiting to be far enough to voice his displeasure.

"An outrage", he gritted out, in his lowest Khuzdûl, after we had been led into a so-called room – rather a crumbling hole, without any window, with moulded walls and furniture so damp the air seemed almost liquid.

"I would not even agree to be paid to live here..."

We shouldn't have been so amused, I guess, but we were young still. And so, instead of being worried about lodgings, I confess we were almost hoping to see a few other dreadful rooms, be it only to guess the faults Balin would find in them, and what would truly make him burst.

"Will you stop giggling?!", he asked, exasperated, after having refused to let us settle in lodgings who could have been quite comfortable, had they not been part of a household where the main occupation clearly lay in men-pleasure.

"The face of you when you found out!", Dwalin hiccuped, and Balin slapped the back of his head, rolling his eyes. "Did you actually ask that woman to cover herself – did he ask her, Thorin, or did I dream it, because… because…

\- The man said a _guest house_ , what was I to expect?", Balin said, in his most dignified manner, but Dagur let out a snort and signalled ' _he did'_ in Iglishmêk, clearly struggling against laughter himself.

"I wish we could have stayed here", Dwalin whispered, wiping away tears of laughter. "Oh Mahal… The _look_ on your face...

\- Laugh as much as you want. I am not leaving my brother and my prince in a brothel, and that is the end of it."

I had to lean against a wall then. The way Balin spelled the word, and the mental image of my grandfather getting somehow mixed with that sordid place, where I had seen more legs, skirts and breasts than in my entire life – imagining Balin describing these rooms to the settlement's respectable Dwarves, it was too much.

Silent laughter shook me until I had no breath left, my forehead pressed against the damp stone, desperately trying to pull myself together and keep going, but in the end the only way to master the fit was to wait it out, and smother my sounds the best I could.

We had travelled for three days, and the weight of the settlement had begun to leave my mind – here I was just a young boy, discovering the ways of the world, and it made me feel so light...

"F-forgive me, Balin", I whispered, once I was able to wipe my cheeks and to stand again. "It's just… I just…

\- Oh, I think we got that, lad", Balin said, a light smile playing on his lips. "I think we pretty much got that.

\- Wait until we leave, Balin… The city is going to steam with their mischief."

And with this words Dagur ruffled my hair, his rough hand rubbing my neck, a broad smile on his scarred face. Neither of them explained to us the much darker sides of brothels, and their true reasons to fear for the safety of two young Dwarves there. They let us giggle, and led us as far from the place as possible – for we were both too young and innocent to guess what a sad place it was, and they had no wish to enlighten us yet.

The lodgings they found for us were very small, but dry and warm. It was just one room, with thick mattresses on the ground, a wooden chest for our clothes, two chairs, a pitcher and a basin, but it was clean – and had the advantage of smelling delightfully, as it was set above a bakery.

"Don't get tempted", Dagur grumbled, climbing up the stairs who smelled of bread, and pastry, making our mouths water. "You'll be fat as geese, once you come back."

We would not, of course, as nothing is given freely in this world – but we were lucky indeed. The landlord was struggling to rent the room, since it was small, and since the bakery had early hours, and was a hot and noisy place – but we would wake up early as well, and were sure to find food easily. The price to pay was reasonable, and as we both agreed to help the baker with heavy loadings, and to reshape some of his tools for free, all in all it was a fair bargain.

We struggled harder to come to terms concerning the forge. The main issues were the coal and the ceding, and I know now we have been cheated – inevitably, as so often when there are not many offers, and a pressing demand. But in the end we agreed to a fourth of our profits as a ceding, coal included, and were able to sign our names under the contract, with Balin and Dagur as a witness.

The landlord was a smith himself. He had a flourishing business with the local farmers, and merchants – but the workload had increased with the warriors' urgent need to arm themselves, and as such there was indeed use for our craft.

"They want to sail, and come back rich", was all he said when Balin asked him why, and we did not press him further.

They had all gathered in Tharbad, the warlords, warriors, and bold men of these lands of marshes. They would have ships built, weapons, shields and chain-mails forged in autumn and winter, and would sail in spring. There were months of work ahead, and coins to earn here – Men would bring us ore, and we would shape it for them.

And so it came that a few days was enough to have us settled, the fire roaring in the small forge we had rented, our tools ready to begin their work with the first bargains struck.

"A mesh coat. A shield. A sword, two daggers. And a helmet."

The three Men looked fearsome enough, all strong limbs, tangled hair and dirt-smeared skin. They eyed us somewhat sceptically – for it was just Dwalin and us, now that Balin and Dagur had set out towards the settlement again.

"For each one of us", one of them added, voice rough, leaning against the counter. "Think you can achieve that, Dwarf?"

There was contempt in his tone, and I could feel Dwalin bristle next to me, but disdain for our craft always spurred me – it was an insult, yes, but it was also a dare, and I was yearning for true challenges, and eager to prove these Men wrong.

"Any emblem?", I merely asked, my voice calm and icy, and the Man frowned.

"Emblem?", he repeated, and I rounded the counter to face him.

"What symbol, what mark do you expect me to carve on your shield?

\- Mark?"

He had turned towards his companions, a somewhat lost expression on his coarse face – behind the dirt, the creases and the sweat. They all looked somewhat taken aback, the three of them, and though I should have felt only contempt for them, I could feel something soften in me.

"What is it that drives you? Who is it you follow?

\- And what business is that of you, Dwarf?", he barked. "I merely asked you for a shield, and decent weapons!

\- Aye. But you will carry them overseas, and on your body. I can leave them bare, without any flourish, without anything to distinguish them from others. Or I can shape them so that they will be marked as yours. I can make them stronger with the purpose you carry.

\- And what purpose do you think we carry, Dwarf?", the Man laughed. "I just want to get rich, and so do they – I bow to no one, I follow nothing but my wishes, and if I find a Man who can lead me quicker to what I want to achieve, aye, I will walk behind him, but I won't call him lord, and serve him, for he might betray me, or die, and then where would I be?"

His words send a roar of laughter through his companions – but there was something in their eyes, something fierce and ruthless and desperate, that made it sound bitter, and sad.

"Very well. I shall leave the shield plain", I said. "Costs are six silver coins, ore included. And five if you furnish the ore yourselves.

\- Three", the Man growled, crossing his arms above his chest, but I just smiled, and he relented.

\- Four, and I bring you the ore. For the three of us.

\- Deal."

They could not spell their names, nor write, and signed with a cross in the small leather book we used for the contracts, and accounts. And they left straight after the measuring, once they had heard how much ore would be needed – with the gruff promise to come back as soon as possible.

"You're too kind with them", Dwalin grumbled, hammering on a piece of iron he was slowly shaping into a knife. "They have no word. No worth. No pride – to say such things to your face so freely…

\- You think I should have asked for more?"

I was working on the buckle of a belt – Men always needed them, and they were easy to display. I enjoyed crafting them – always have. It is no hard work, but you have to keep the leather in mind even as you shape the iron, and I like the way these two crafts embrace, making the belt stronger.

"No. It's a fair bargain. But they deserve no emblem. No mark. They have no honour.

\- No purpose...", I corrected. "No aim, beyond survival.

\- _He might betray me, and die_. So might he, for all that's worth!"

His eyebrows were drawn, and he was taking his indignation on that knife so keenly that the blade would be razor-sharp ere soon. And I suddenly felt warmth in my chest, warmth and overwhelming affection for him who was following, always following, and who would have died before betraying me, as I so well knew.

But I did not say a word. I just squeezed his shoulder, once the buckle was shaped, and had cooled down in water, before placing it on the counter, and Dwalin just growled, the crease on his brow smoothing as he picked up the shaped knife with his pliers.

The bell of the forge chimed ere long, and there he was, the coarse Man, without his companions, but with a bag full of ore. He watched us empty it, inspect the ore, and nod in approval – but when we bowed, sealing the deal once and for all, he did not leave at once.

Instead, he picked up the buckle I had shaped, and laid it back on the counter, almost reverently.

"What you said, before… About making weapons stronger… About carving some of our strength in our shields…"

He paused, and then he looked up – and they were pitch-black, these eyes that were meeting mine. Pitch-black, but brightened with something close to hope.

"Would it cost much more, to carve something on them?

\- On the three of them?", I asked, and the Man nodded.

"But… something different on each", he rasped, and I exchanged a look with Dwalin, before answering.

"It depends on the symbol."

The Man's shoulders hunched, slightly, but after a while he talked, words barely above a whisper.

"An eel. Three reeds. And a swan. It does not have to be… very elaborated. It does not need to be obvious, or shiny."

I took a small wooden stick, and a fistful of ashes, and spread them on the ground at the Man's feet. And then, without crouching, eyes fixed on the ashes, I drew: three deep, harsh lines, and softer, more oblique ones, for the leaves and the flowers.

"Three reeds."

A sigma-shaped curve, with geometrical lines to outline the scales, the tail and the fins.

"An eel."

A soft curve for the body, and flame-shaped lines for the feathers. Another two, for the water, and a thin, triangular-shaped mark for the beak.

"A swan."

I looked up to the Man, and there was something on his face, something that shone for a few seconds, making him look entirely different, and that hid as quickly as a sun-ray beneath a cloud.

"How much?", he asked, and I answered: "Another silver coin.

\- Just one? For the three of us?", the Man asked, and I nodded.

"Aye. It is not the hardest part of the work."

The Man stared down at the ashes for a few seconds more.

"Then do it, master Dwarf", he said, voice low, and then he crouched, and wiped ashes and drawings with his broad hand.

He took a handful of ashes as he left, fist clenched around them – as if to remind himself of something, as if it was as precious as salt, or the spices he hoped to bring back, sailing the sea and taking something of the River with him.

He must have spread our name, that Man, because the day afterwards, others came. And of all the shields we made, in that first month of autumn, none was left bare.

And so it came that, one evening, as the nights had begun to shorten and the leaves to turn to copper and flames, we found ourselves able to spend a few coins on the city's stalls. There was a feast going on, but I do not remember what its purpose was. I know there were jugglers, and bonfires, and strange sorts of challenges and trials – one of them being to climb a huge wooden pole as fast as possible, and to remove the arrow lodged there.

There were story-tellers weaving their tales while pulling the strings of strange, tiny puppets, there were dancers whose bodies seemed to be boneless, able to bend beyond the possible. There were people with faces painted so as to appear grotesque, animal-like, or hiding beneath masks.

It was not making any sense, it was strange, wild and somewhat unsettling – but it also smelled of wonderful spices, of flavours we had never tasted, and we would not have been elsewhere for the world.

There we stood, hands wrapped around two mugs full of a dark, spicy drink I struggled to recognise as coffee – it smelt so strongly, so enticingly… I had been too young in Erebor or in the Iron Hills to do more than taking a sip of it, every now and then – it had always seemed such a treacherous drink back then, smelling delightfully but tasting bitter, and making my heart race madly afterwards.

Coffee had been a treat we had learnt to abandon, in Dunland – it was too expensive, too rare, and had to be kept for special occasions, such as Durin's Day or Yuletide. We had learnt to live without – had not really missed it, but here…

Here the smell was so strong, so enticing, that Dwalin and me could not withstand its call.

And it was velvet. Dark, rich, and wonderfully warm, with an after-taste I could not recognize – delightfully foreign, allowing bitterness to fade.

"Cardamom."

The voice who had spoken was low, somewhat deep, and broken around the edges. We had sat down close to one of the city's fountains, away from the feast's throbbing, but still part of the warmth and magic – and the silhouette detaching itself from the wall seemed dream-like, as well.

It was much smaller than a Man's, and had the shape of a girl – but it was no child. In the light of the flames, the features were thin, young but clearly feminine, wrapped in layers of clothes, worn one above the other. She had black hair that hung lose in tangled waves, dark eyes that seemed almost too bright, hidden behind the lashes, and even her skin seemed of a darker shade that those of the women we had seen so far.

"They put cardamom in the coffee. That is the flavour's secret."

She should have been sweating, wrapped in that woollen cloak, under the layers of the many tunics covering her body. It was hard to say if she was wearing trousers or a skirt, as the folds swirled around her ankles. But the girl, though holding herself as erect as a column, was clutching the folds of her cloak, drawing it around her like someone fighting back cold, and the steps she took towards us were unsteady, like those of a drunk – or a dancer.

"I can read it for you. Once you have drunk. I can tell what is written for you inside.

\- And what do you expect in return?", Dwalin asked, sharply – I could sense his distrust, and the way all his hackles were up.

So were mine: the girl seemed frail and broken, but there were enough folds in her many clothes to hide a knife – and she looked ghost-like, and dark.

"A sip of it. And a coin. I am hungry."

There was a quiver in her voice – something rough, and animal. Something painful. She kept walking towards us, and her steps were teetering – and I knew, suddenly, that she was about to faint.

"Thorin, don't..."

But I had already taken the two steps it took to meet her, and caught her in my arms just when her knees gave way. She was dark, she was filthy, but she was also trembling, her eyes closed and her face drenched in cold sweat.

She never moved. She never sliced me open, reaching for my purse. She just pressed her body close to mine, hiding her face in my chest, moaning when Dwalin tried to pull her from me.

"I am so hungry", she whispered. "I don't want to die. Don't make me die.

\- Let go of him! Let go, and then we can talk.

\- Dwalin, don't…

\- We know nothing of who she is. Mahal knows what's wrong with her – let go of him! Let go or I'll break your spine."

She let go, then, and withdrew against the fountain, leaning against its basin, still kneeling on the ground. The look she was casting on Dwalin was so dark he should have shuddered – but he merely grinned.

"Not dying then, are we?

\- You are a beast", she spat out.

"And you are talented", he answered. "Now bugger off."

She looked at him, and then she pulled herself up. She took three steps, then turned, and spat on the ground. And then, she took a few more steps, her back straight, her moves jerked – and collapsed, hitting the pavement, and lay there unmoving and silent.

I gave a start – but Dwalin's arm barred my chest, preventing me from rushing towards her. It was horrible, it was cruel – but he was right, and had proven so before.

But the girl did not rise, did not move, not even as we approached, and as Dwalin probed her form with the tip of his boot. And I suddenly felt dread invade me, dread and terrible guilt. I knelt down next to her, and circled her shoulders, drawing my other arm under her knees, and I carried her out of the way, back to the fountain.

"She was telling the truth, Dwalin. She's starved."

My voice faltered, but Dwalin just grunted, and dipped the tip of the girl's cloak into the water, wetting her cheeks and forehead. She moaned – then she opened her eyes, and the look she cast on our faces was lost.

"You fainted", Dwalin said, voice gruff. "Lie still for a while."

She obeyed. She was trembling slightly again, but turned her face away when Dwalin tried to rub it again with the wet cloth.

"Alright. Have it your way."

She lay still for a few more minutes, her cheek pressed against the pavement, her arms curled up against her chest. And I ended up speaking, in the end:

"Try to sit up. He's going to get you something to eat."

She did not move. She kept absolutely still as I handed a few coins to Dwalin, and as he marched away, having signalled me to be careful. But I saw tears begin to form in her eyes, and slide down her cheeks slowly – and I could not bear it. I reached out, and placed a hand on her side, as lightly as I could, not wanting to scare her, and afraid to hurt her.

And after a while, I felt thin, cold fingers against mine.

"I did not lie", she said. "I'm hungry. I'm cold. It is so damp here, always wet. It never dries. I want to leave…

\- Sit up...", I whispered. "Sit up. I will help you."

She was raving, clearly, and I was afraid. But I also knew what it felt like, I had been there… And so I helped her to sit up, leaning her against me, one arm around her waist.

"There...", I said. "There's still some left, I didn't drink it all."

I raised my mug of coffee to her lips, and she closed her eyes and drank. A shudder went through her, and she placed the mug on the ground, breathing heavily.

"It is bitter. It is good.

\- Where do you live? Where is your family?"

She did not answer. She just sat, pressing her hand against her forehead, rubbing it every now and then, wincing slightly.

"Are you in pain?

\- I'm used to that", she said. "It's nothing."

Dwalin came back soon afterwards with a loaf of bread, and the girl broke it carefully, hiding half of it in her cloak, and taking small bites of the rest, still leaning against me. She wasn't looking at Dwalin, but she had relaxed, slightly, and after a while he simply sat down on her other side.

"Look, I… I thought you were pretending, before. That's why.

\- I was not", the girl said. "But I could have been. A lot of people are."

Silence stretched between us, broken by the occasional shouts of the crowd, far away.

"You are the two Dwarven blacksmiths", she whispered, eventually. "The ones carving symbols on Men's shields. You know, they believe you have magic powers. They believe you can weave charms of protection in the iron. Drink your cup."

She had turned towards Dwalin, and he arched his eyebrows.

"Drink your cup, and I will tell you what's inside."

He did, and she took the mug from his hand and swirled it softly, staring for a while at the coffee grounds left in the bottom.

"What do you see?", she asked, and Dwalin shrugged, clearly thinking it was nonsense, but willing to humour her.

"I don't know… A hand with three fingers? An anchor?"

She peered at the coffee grounds for a while, and nodded.

"Friendship and loyalty. Help in need. That makes sense, does it not?"

He did not answer. He was not one to believe in portents, or signs. He always claimed them to be vague enough to encompass every possible truth. But that day, Dwalin stayed silent, because, though he still distrusted that girl, he also pitied her.

"Your turn", she said, taking my mug. "What do you see?

\- We have both drunk", I objected, but she shrugged.

"It's your cup."

I took a look, then, after she swirled it and handed it to me.

"A hammer. Or an axe, I don't really know."

She took the mug from my hand, then, and her fingers brushed against mine for a second, sending down a strange flutter into my chest.

"Which one do you prefer?", she asked, her dark eyes somewhat sad – but they were beautiful as well, beautiful and strange and bright as obsidian…

"I use both", I whispered.

She gazed at me for a few more seconds, and then she said, in that low key of voice she had:

"The axe stands for sorrow. But the hammer stands for strength, and getting wiser. You are a blacksmith here, are you not? And blacksmiths use hammers."

She stood up, then, slowly, brushing her cloak and wrapping it around her. She had to lean against the fountain's wall for a while, and to wipe her forehead, but once she was feeling strong enough she faced us, stating boldly:

"You owe me a coin. I read the cups for you.

\- And he paid for your bread", Dwalin said, and in the end she smiled.

"Fair enough", she whispered, and gone she was, with a few light steps, vanishing in the darkness, and leaving us bewildered.

"Who do you think she was?", I asked, in the end, and Dwalin shrugged.

"No idea. But if I were you, I'd take off these clothes as soon as possible, and scrub my skin carefully. That girl is filthy, and probably sick.

\- Yes", I whispered, thinking of the way she had shivered, the way she had winced in pain, and her strange words. "I hope she'll get better…

\- I would not worry", Dwalin grumbled. "There's not much more we could have done. We don't know who she is, where she lives, and what happened to her. And I doubt it is much of our business, Thorin.

\- No", I sighed. "Not really."

I did as he had advised. I took off my clothes and washed, carefully, and then I rinsed my clothes as well and hung them on the chairs in our room, so that they could dry.

We spoke for a while more, commenting the feast but leaving the incident with the girl unspoken. And if, once we had agreed to sleep, her face kept appearing in my mind, with that skin as dark as honey-bread, and these black eyes, so deep, so bright… If I kept thinking about the way her body had pressed itself against mine, so frail and lithe, but hard beneath the layers of clothes, wondering at the spikes it sent pooling down in my stomach… If, long after Dwalin had begun to snore, I still lay there, wide awake, my heart hammering in my chest – then it had to be because of the coffee, and the strange spices within.

That unexpected longing, that heat and restlessness I felt – it was the coffee.

She was a beggar, probably a liar and a cheat. She was none of my business. I would never see her again, I might as well start to forget her, just like Dwalin had.

"Cardamom", I whispered, in the darkness, and I took the word with me in my dreams, that night – wild dreams, strange dreams, dreams of symbols and poison, of danger and of longing.

* * *

 **A/N** : _Cardamom is really used in Jordanian coffea, and has a particular taste that used to puzzle me as a kid... The coffee is boiled into small cans you put on the fire, and is very dark and very thick. It is also custom there - or at least was in my father's village some thirty years ago, as my Mum told me - to read signs in the coffee grounds. I cannot tell you, however, if they really told the truth or the future... Perhaps they did, and perhaps not :)._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _Hello my dears! And here I am again... I am sorry for the delay - life caught up with me and it was mostly work. I'm replacing in several doctors offices, always a few day at a time, and between the distances and getting adjusted, it took up a lot of time. I'm also pleased to announce that I'm absolutely brave and understand a bit of Thorin's pain against Azog's Warg, for I got bitten by one of my employers' dog during a replacements :O! No real harm done however - thank Mahal for jeans. I try to befriend that dog by the way... so far we both stay clear of each other but I don't despair :p..._

 _All this to say... it took me time to write that. Tharbad is a difficult bit to write for Thorin, mainly because it's only headcanon. Completely invented. Even though I have thought of these bits long ago : proof of it, the second chapter of Fili's fic (hint, hint :p). I wonder how you'll find that one, and as usual I hope you'll enjoy it despite my whims and strange ideas. Take care, and till soon, Meysun._

* * *

 **The King of Carven Stone : Part VII  
**

 **A Thief's Promise (Tharbad)  
**

 **4.**

Autumn was well advanced, sending down heavy gushes of rain, swelling Tharbad's waters and drenching its old stones. The once crimson leaves were turning to brown, and the air was getting cold and damp, drops drumming hard against the forge's roof, thrown violently against the windows.

And the dark-haired girl who had haunted my dreams, whose lithe body had pressed itself against mine in a fierce attempt to survive – she had never reappeared. She had loomed in the back of my mind for days, and I had secretly searched for her, every time we had crossed Tharbad's grey, water-drenched streets, but she was gone.

And gradually, the impressions she had left had begun to fade, had become dream-like, feeling unreal. I still thought of her, every now and then, wondering where she was and what had become of her. But there was work to be done. Weapons to forge, and the fire to keep roaring. Bargains to strike, and a grim fight against cheats to hold up, day after day.

And so I began to forget her.

It was not Erebor, and I was not carving jewels or mounting stones, for there was no need for splendour and finery here. But I revelled in the work of a swordsmith nonetheless, for blades have a beauty of their own, shaped between fire and anvil, carefully ground and sharpened, until they reach the perfect balance that makes them unique.

It is hard work, and there is something of the smith in every blade he carves. For it is his striving, and the balance of his moves, the subtle craft of his blows, that allows metal to be bent in the right way. When it is softened by the fire, pliable, yielding… iron holds a song of its own, and makes the smith's very Soul expand as he shapes it to meet his visions.

There is subtlety in the cross-guard, and the way it has to be slung around the blade, so as to leave no space between them, until they are one. But the utmost skill lies in the pommel, for it holds the sword together, acting like a counterweight. Cutting it and shaping it – it is almost like courting, adding touch after touch, carefully, lovingly, a false movement being enough to ruin it.

They think the force of a sword lies in the blade – how wrong they are... The very balance lies in the pommel – and that Elven-sword… I never felt its like. Never. When I first lifted it, and wielded it… It took my breath away. It made my heart clench, and expand at the same time – because it felt utterly, and perfectly _right_.

I fell in love with that Elven-sword – the one I named _Barakâl_. With its blade, that always shone to warn us from foes. With its guard, and its hilt, and the way they belonged together. But its treasure lay in its pommel, and the way it balanced out every move of the blade… and I bow to the craftsman who shaped it.

I bow to him and I thank him, for my foe is slain now.

That day, I was forging a far lesser sword for a local warlord. Dwalin had gone to fill our coal supplies, and I was slowly hammering the heated iron into a blade. It was a continuous dance between the flames and the anvil, and I had been bent upon the work well over an hour when the bell chimed.

"One moment…", I called – I was almost done, the rough shape of a blade laid before me.

I struck a few well-placed blows, and could not repress a smile, despite the sweat beading on my brow and the ache in my arms. The roughest work was done – the sword created. Now I would have to shape it, grinding it carefully, but this could wait a little. I laid down the blade and my hammer, and wiped my face with the back of my wrist, relishing the warmth, and the pride curling in my chest – it felt good. It felt right.

I looked up, and there she stood.

Her eyes blacker than I remembered, their lashes so dark, with black charcoal lines drawn at the edge of the lids like tattoos… Her hair was tangled, and hung loose, soaked with rain. She was still wearing her cloak, but I could see her shivering, her lips almost blue. However, there was a light smile on her lips, and her hand was not trembling as she stretched out her arm, putting two large eggs on the counter.

"I need a knife", she said – and I remembered that voice, somewhat hoarse, a bit deeper than one could expect.

I rounded the counter, frowning slightly, and she pushed the eggs towards me – that was when I noticed the copper stains under her fingernails.

"What happened to you?", I asked, and her smile deepened, her eyes flashing, dark and daring as she bared her teeth.

"I gutted a Man. And I intend to do so again without soiling my hands."

My frown deepened, and suddenly she laughed.

"Don't look at me like that. Your brow is full of clouds, like a thunderstorm. It was a joke."

She shrugged off her cloak, and she was dressed just as strangely, wearing several tunics one above the other, with trousers pooling around her legs, looking almost like a skirt, tucked into worn boots. And she rolled her eyes when I failed to move, still glaring at her distrustfully.

"I helped a cow giving birth. I brought her calf to life, but these Men here… They do not give me coins. They want what I can do, but they do not want me. They pay me with goods, to chain me here. So that I cannot hoard. Will you take those goose eggs, and make me a knife?

\- But…

\- You do it for them, don't you?!"

A flash of hurt and defiance in her eyes – she had snarled, and this time it was no jest. She had crossed her arms, glaring back at me, and her cloak was dripping on the floor. I could see it was faded, and old, and full of holes – and I could also see the thin mud-streak on her brow, and the way her wet hair clung to her neck and shoulders. She was still shivering slightly, and Mahal… despite the mud, the dirt and the copper stains under her nails, I found her beautiful.

Fascinating – mysterious and strange. Certainly not to be trusted, and yet...

"Aye", I said, my voice somewhat hoarse. "Sit down here. I have to finish this first. Give me that cloak."

Her dark eyes melted, very slowly, and she handed her cloak to me, watching me spread it on a beam, close to the fire. I gestured towards the bench, next to the fireplace, and then I took up the work on the sword I was shaping, silently, trying to forget that she was just a few steps away from me, and watching every move.

I picked up the blade I had just shaped, and heated it once more, casting a critical eye upon it. I watched the iron turn to uniform crimson, then I removed it from the flames with my tongs, quenching the blade in water so that it could harden. After that I took the iron I had placed aside for the cross-guard, and began to heat it.

"Who are you making that sword for?", she asked, after a while.

She had removed her boots, and had drawn her feet up on the bench, circling her knees with her arms. She looked small, like this, small and tiny, but her eyes were bright, and sharp – like a wild hawk, so savage…

I just shrugged, unwilling to disclose any name, and she did not ask again. She leant her chin against her knees and closed her eyes. And for long minutes, the only sounds between us were those of my hammer, folding the iron, bending it into shape.

"Do you ever care?", she asked, eventually, and I frowned, unable to look up, working on the thin line that would allow the blade to pass through the guard.

"What they become. What is done with them. Does it trouble you?

\- I make them. I don't have any part in their deeds afterwards.

\- But if they are wielded by bad Men? Do you still make the sharp, reliable, even for those who do not deserve them?"

This time I looked up, and held her gaze.

"How am I to know who is deserving and who is not? I am a blacksmith. What I forge is a reflection of my worth. It does not change according to the bargains I strike."

She gazed at me, and there was something in her eyes I could not place. Sadness, appreciation… and weariness as well.

"Then make me a good knife, _azerwal_...", she whispered, turning her gaze towards the flames.

I stilled, fingers helplessly knotted around my tools. And I stared at her, like a gawking idiot, for her voice was fond and made something clench, deep in my chest.

"What did you just call me?"

Damn her for her smile. For the way it softened her dark eyes, making my heart race madly between my ribs – _do not trust her, do not trust her, stop staring_ …

" _Azerwal_ ", she said. "It means 'the one with blue eyes'. They are very striking. It makes your face hard to forget. So I decided to call you like that, whenever I thought of you."

She said it very simply, without blushing, without simpering. She did not even lower her gaze – and yet she must have been aware of the fire her words unleashed in my heart, because she had thought of me, and called me in her thoughts, and I…

"What is your name?", she asked, pulling me from my thoughts, and it took me a few heartbeats to answer, fingers still gripping my hammer.

That hammer that stood for strength, and getting wiser...

"Thorin", I whispered.

"Thorin...", she repeated – and oh, what was it her voice did, deep in my chest, as she said my name aloud, getting used to it…? People said it all the time, it was not even my true Name, and yet…

"It sounds just like you. It seems harsh, but it is not… What does it mean?"

I shook my head, fiercely, determined to snap out of this madness, and to ignore the heat in my face, creeping up to my ears – _Frerin and Dís would be rolling on the floor, stop it, stop it…_

"Daring. It means 'daring'. And I'm not soft. You don't know me. At all. You know nothing of me. And I nothing of you!"

I had growled the words, glaring fiercely at her, but it just made her laugh.

"Then why don't you ask? Your tall friend, with the brown hair, he would have pinned me against the wall and strangled me, until he'd have squeezed my name out of me…

\- Dwalin would never do such a thing", I said, firmly, and she smiled.

"Of course he would. He would not have taken my cloak to dry. He would not have taken up work that could wait, so that I could get warm. That's why I waited for him to go.

\- I..."

I was speechless, my face undoubtedly crimson. I could not make her out, I simply could not – why would she be so open in her designs, why would she show me she had read me, and like a children's book besides? Why would she hint at Dwalin's rightful distrust in her, if she wanted nothing more than using me?

"Who are you?", I hissed, in the end. "What do you want from me?"

 _You are breaking my peace. You make me feel weak. Helpless. I wish you would go._

But she had grown serious, and her eyes had stopped teasing me. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, without the playful edge that made me feel so lost and awkward.

"A knife. Some warmth. That is what I wanted. And you… you were kind to me, once. That is why I came. Because I knew you would understand. There is something – something in the way you look at me. It makes me remember. It makes me want to try harder. That is what is so striking, _azerwal…_ Because it is so rare, here. It does not even exist anymore."

Silence, beneath the cracking of the flames, and the thudding of raindrops against the roof and the windows. Silence, and utter sadness in her words – gone was the strange flame in my chest, the heat on my cheeks, leaving only questions.

"What is your name? Where are you from?"

Silence. And her, black-eyed, dark-haired, small and refusing to bend, straightening up and gazing at me – frail, dangerous, beautiful and heartbreaking.

"Taghbalut", she said. "It means _spring_. Where water is born. Where I come from, it is the utmost treasure. Here… it is just hateful. I used to love my name. Now I don't. Because it sounds just like this city, in their wretched language… I have nothing to do with them. I tell them to call me Tala. It means _fountain_. It's enough.

\- Tar-bal-oot", I repeated, slowly, trying to say it right.

It was a strange name – a name that sounded almost Dwarven, and branded itself in my mind forever, for the word it reminded me of was _tharabâl_. Ambiguous, and ringing of danger. For it is the word for 'thief', and can be considered as an insult, but it is also a word of endearment, for our Ones steal our love as well, steal it and give it back tenfold.

So do our closest friends.

There is no word for 'burglar' in our language. It is the same as 'thief' – and how bitter-sweet it was, to call him like this, my little, light-footed friend who stole from me, in the end…

It hurts even now. Deep inside. It hurts, for I was left in the dark, and trusted him all the same. I know madness claimed me, and I know I failed. But I do not understand why he believed in me, in the first place – why he made me think he believed, why he did not leave at once when he stopped trusting me…?

But it does not matter now. It is another wound that will not heal, and I cannot blame him. I cannot, and I will not – no one shall bear the blame but myself, for I failed them all, and will have to answer for it in this life and the next.

"Taghbalut", she repeated, the first _tharabâl_ of my life, her voice deep and her eyes so dark...

"You make it sound… different. More like _there_. But I am Tala here. I changed.

\- Where is _there_? Where do you come from?"

I have never been good, with asking questions. They always sounded like accusations, because I do not like to ask. It always feels like prying. And what are answers, but carefully woven lies, or half-truths, if they are given grudgingly…?

Tala looked up, and I wondered if she would answer. Her gaze seemed far away, lost in places I did not know, but after a while, she spoke, her voice very low.

"Where I come from, water is scarce. The mountains are made of sand, and they burn your soles if you walk barefoot. The sun is dazzling, and the heat is so strong that you learn to treasure your own sweat. It is warm there, so warm… But in the evening it gets cold. So we mount the tents, and huddle together, and we drink, and eat what the desert gives us. We do not take more that the sand and rocks and hidden springs can give. We roam the desert from one end to the other, and our heavens are hidden waters, and palm-trees.

\- Harad...", I whispered, in awe, and she smiled, very sadly.

"Yes, _azerwal_. Harad… I did not know water could make you die. But it can. It can – if there is no heat, no warmth. If the sun is always hidden. If the home you loved is robbed, and plundered by Men who seek only riches. If they kill your friends for they tusks. If they take those you love, and those who are helpless, and…"

But there she stilled. There were tears in her eyes, and her face had grown dark, and fierce. She pressed her lips together, and breathed deeply. And there was anger in her eyes, anger and a fierce resolution, and I knew from the closed-off lines around her mouth that she would tell me nothing more.

"But you are a blacksmith. You do not care for deeds, and what is done with the weapons you shape. And I asked you for a knife, not for pity or compassion."

It felt like a slap in the face, and it stung. I turned from her, and finished my work on the cross-guard, without a word, until it was shaped, so that I could lay it down to cool. Not once did I turn towards her, and yet my heart throbbed, for I knew some of the losses she spoke of, some of the pain and the longing, and could not tell her.

"What in Mahal's name are you doing here?"

The bell had chimed again, and Dwalin had marched in, loaded with two heavy sacks, hair and beard dripping. He was glaring at Tala, beneath his thick eyebrows, and laid down the sacks with loud thumps, showing his displeasure.

"There you are, _amestan_ ", she voiced, seated cross-legged on the bench and not moving for an inch. "He was getting unsettled, your sweet friend here. I tend to do that to people."

I did not react, I did not even turn. I just ran my fingers against the cross-guard – thinking it still needed to be polished.

"Get. Yourself. Out of here."

Dwalin's voice was low – and dangerous. He did not care for the rain dripping from his cloak, pooling around his boots – he was seething, I could tell that, but Tala only laughed.

"He made me sit here. Yell at him, not at me, _amestan_."

Dwalin's jaw clenched, and his gaze met mine, travelling from my face to Tala's, and then he sighed, his hand moving angrily against his thigh.

 _\- She's fibbing. She's a liar. I don't like her._

 _\- She asked for a knife._

 _\- So what?!_

I clenched my fists, and then I turned towards Tala.

"I'm going to make you this knife. But not today. You take back your eggs. It will be ready in two days. And now go… Please."

She stood up, then, angrily slipping her tiny feet in her boots.

"Why?", she hissed. "Why do you give them back to me?! I told you, I have no coins. That is my way to pay you! I have nothing else, but I don't want charity, I don't want your pity, I spit on it!"

There were tears in her eyes, and she yanked her cloak from the beam, wrapping it around her with jerked moves.

"You think you know me? You think you are so noble, don't you? But you know nothing! I owe you nothing! You're just the same as them, you're just the same!"

And with these words, she stormed out, pushing Dwalin hard in the chest, running out in the rain. And suddenly my blood turned ablaze, throbbing through my chest, making me see white for a second. I did not even realize I was running after her, the only thing I was aware of was the rain, pouring on my bare arms, washing over my face, and the damp softness of her woollen cloak, because I had grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to turn towards me.

"You… _you_ are the one knowing nothing! You know nothing about me! You think you can come, and tell me… tell me those things, and yell at me, and then turn away, just like that? You think I'd be able to eat my fill with those eggs, knowing you have nothing left? You think I can make you a knife, and take your last possessions from you, and still be content? You think I don't know what it feels like?"

I was panting, my tunic plastered against my chest – I felt cold, I felt bare and yet I was shaking with anger, holding her firmly, unafraid to meet her gaze.

"I'm not the same. I'll never be the same. Don't you dare say such words to me."

She was small. She was tiny. There was still a spark of anger in her gaze, but there was fear as well, fear that slowly melted into something else as she took my face in.

"You're frightening, when you get angry...", she whispered, and then her hands moved, very slowly, towards my chest where they rested for a few seconds, before they brushed my collarbones, fingertips meeting against my neck.

Her eyes were so dark, and her face was perfect…

"You're not afraid of me.", I let out, coldly, but my blood was ablaze and turned to melted fire when she smiled, unabashedly.

"True, _azerwal_.

\- Stop lying to me.

\- I'll try."

And then she kissed me.

Her lips met mine and it was soft, and foreign, and strange. I did not kiss her back, not at once, I just stood still, feeling her against me, getting used to that breath-taking sensation… I had never done this before, and it frightened me, but it was also wonderful, and wild, and it stilled something in me – a deep fear I had, that fear of never knowing what it was, of standing there watching while others lived…

But then I circled her waist, hesitantly, and lifted my lips for a second… and I placed them back against hers, kissing her softly, very carefully, not even thinking of exploring her mouth – this was already enough, and I was overwhelmed, my heart racing madly in my chest, my body pressed against hers.

"You are so warm...", she whispered. "I know you would be."

I just kissed her again. I never thought of all the odds between us, of the fact that I was a Dwarven prince and she a daughter of Harad, for what were we both but beggars, who had lost their kingdoms and were trying to build another… And when she broke the kiss and leant against me, I just held her close.

"I will come back and get the knife. I promise.

\- What of food…?

\- I have enough. I told you. They are for you. I'll never take the knife if you give them back.

\- Do you have shelter…?

\- Do not worry for me. I will come back.

\- I..."

She was pulling away from me, very slowly, and it was almost painful, but she brushed my face, gently, ghosting her fingertips above my brow.

"Do not say it. Do not say it, _azerwal_. Go back to him, he worries. He's glaring, that _amestan_ of yours, and I like him for this. He's watching over you, and it warms my heart. Now go back inside."

And gone she was, disappearing between the raindrops that fell like arrows.

I raised my face towards the sky, and let the rain pour over my face, dripping on my brow, on my hair, and on my lips – and I do not know how long I stood like this, for I hardly knew myself in that wonderful, blissful moment…

I entered the forge in a daze, leaning against the door – and found Dwalin emptying the sacks of coal with fierce, angry moves, back turned towards me. His hair was still dripping, and I dimly wondered why, but she was in each and every one of my thoughts, my black-eyed Taghbalut, my savage Tala from Harad…

"Was it good? Did you enjoy it?"

Dwalin's voice was sharp, low – it snapped me out of my thoughts, slicing them like a knife, and I gazed up at him, still leaning against the door.

"What…?", I breathed out, my voice hoarse, and Dwalin turned towards me.

His eyes were dark, and hard – his face stony, and closed-off. He clenched his jaw, taking a few breaths, and ended up wiping his wet hair from his face.

"I saw you, Thorin. Don't pretend, it does not suit you. This is madness, and you know it."

It was like plunging into an icy bath, it felt like falling. I almost gasped, and something cold spread in my chest, breaking my bliss into small, grey pieces. But I never lowered my gaze. I just clenched my fists, feeling the hard wood of the door against my shoulder-blades.

"You have no right...", I whispered, and Dwalin's eyes flashed.

"Oh aye? I have no right? I have every right in the world, when she has you wrapped around her finger, believing every fib she spins, running after her like a…

\- It is not like that.

\- No? And what was that, just before? Did I dream it, or did she throw herself at your neck, kissing your sense out of your brain?! For a _knife_ , Thorin, for a blasted knife! She's using you, can't you see? And she's unbalanced, anyone can see that!

\- I'm not mindless", I whispered. "I don't believe her. But I still…

\- You still what, Thorin? Mahal, you invited her in! You made her sit there like… I don't know, like she was some friend or relative of yours, but she's not! She's manipulating you, can't you see?

\- I don't need you to tell me that, Dwalin!"

I was shaking now – with anger, with hurt, with the aftermath of everything that had just passed. I could feel my eyes begin to sting – how was it possible to feel such bliss, only to feel so shattered moments afterwards…?

"I know she's lying! I know she cannot be trusted! I'm not stupid!

\- Well, you're good at faking it then!"

It had come out brash, in an angry growl, and I felt something snap.

"You're just jealous", I breathed out – but Dwalin only snorted, and the look he cast on me was nothing like I had ever seen.

"Jealous of what? Of a kiss? Don't you think I can get as much as I want, and whenever I want? Do you think I waited to be almost of age to know what it feels like?"

I felt the blood drain from my face then – it was a low blow, entirely unexpected. It left me reeling, unable to answer, almost unable to think… and it made Dwalin curse, instantly, his face falling back to the one I knew and loved, blushing furiously.

"Mahal, sparrow, I'm sorry. I never meant that. I'm a jerk, I'm a fucking jerk, I'm sorry."

I could not look at him. I could only swallow, staring at the ground.

"Fuck. Thorin. I'm… I'm sorry.

\- You had no right", I whispered, in the end. "You still have no right. Not today, nor any day. I never questioned any of your actions. I won't have you question mine, not in that way. _Never_."

I forced myself to lift my face, to drill my gaze into his – hard and cold and collected, just like my grandfather's. I waited for him to lower his eyes, giving me a curt nod, his face still crimson, and then I turned, crossing the forge, taking the blade I had made out of the water, determined to shape it till nightfall, if it helped to block out Dwalin working next to me.

But I was feeling cold, and shivers kept creeping up my spine. My shirt was thoroughly drenched, and clung to my back, and I couldn't concentrate. I was struggling with the grinding – struggling when my tools usually were almost part of my hands…

"Hey..."

Dwalin's voice was almost shy, and I stiffened as he approached, ready to shake him off. But he did not touch me. He just stood still, a few steps away from me.

"Come. Get that stupid shirt off. You'll catch death. And leave that darn blade as well. It can wait."

I didn't answer. I just went on with the grinding, feeling my throat tighten.

"Thorin…

\- I don't want to...", I began, but then my voice broke, and I put down my work, balling my fists. "I don't want to talk. About her. About… anything. I don't want to talk.

\- Alright", Dwalin said, very softly, and there was sadness in his brown eyes. "But… I hate this. What just happened. I don't want this.

\- Is that really what you think of me?"

I had turned towards him, and the words had broken out despite myself, in a tidal wave of hurt.

"That I'm stupid, and inexperienced – that I'm so _needy_ and green that a kiss is enough to make me forget who I am?! That I should have kissed a girl long before, and shagged a few already years ago?! Because… if you do, Dwalin… if you do, then..."

I could not go on. My voice choked, and there were tears in my eyes – tears of anger, and of pain. And Dwalin instantly bridged the distance between us, shaking his head and clasping my forearms strongly, his gaze firmly planted in mine.

"Never, Thorin. Of course not. I was just…

\- You broke everything", I let out, almost like a sob. "Everything.

\- I know", he whispered, and then he bent his head, so that our foreheads could touch – pressing his brow against mine. "And I wish I could take it back. Believe me. It wasn't my place. I still hate her for what just happened, and I'll strangle her if she hurts you, but it wasn't my place."

I stood still for a while, closing my eyes, feeling Dwalin's forehead against mine – solid, and warm, and steady, just like he was. It was the first time – the first time it felt foreign, the first time there was something awkward between us. And we both hated it, and dreaded it, despite the hurt lingering in my chest, and Dwalin's mute disapproval and worry.

"We won't agree on this, sparrow", he whispered, in the end. "I won't lie to you."

Dwalin, my _mamarrakhûn_ , my _amestan_ … There was not an inch of falsehood and deceit in him. There never was. And this was one of the reasons I loved him so much – and this I knew, deep inside, despite the confusing and overwhelming storm Tala had released in my heart and Soul.

"I will still make that knife for her.

\- Alright."

He had sighed his answer – and then, because he was just as stubborn as me, he added:

"I will still distrust her.

\- All right."

We broke apart then, and it was still awkward, that feeling between us, that space she had taken, despite myself, despite Dwalin. But then he cracked a small smile, and nudged me in the chest.

"Get out of that damp shirt, lady-killer. You're shivering."

I huffed, but peeled myself out of my wet tunic, crouching close to the fire, allowing the heat to meet my bare shoulders. And then I sat on the bench – it was still full of Tala's presence, of the way she had looked at me, and said my name aloud… Of the words she had spoken, longing for Harad just like I still longed for the Lonely Mountain…

Dwalin had spread his cloak over the beam, along with his jerkin. I watched him move along in the forge, wrapped in my own dry cloak, feeling exhaustion creep up – Tala's visit, and the kiss, Dwalin's words and our fight… was this love? Was this part of becoming a man, making my own choices, even if it caused me to argue with Dwalin – was there no way around that…?

And where was she, dark-eyed and fierce Tala – was she safe, was she warm, had she found shelter and food that night…?

But the drops fell against the roof, against the windows, and I wrapped my cloak tighter around me, repressing a shiver – there was no answer. There was only rain, swelling the river, drenching the streets, and washing away the memory of her kiss.

* * *

 **Translation and notes :**

 _I was always fascinated by the Haradrim, ever since I watched Lord of the Rings. I found them intriguing, mysterious and beautiful, and that is why I made Taghbalut one of them. Since she is Human, and that very little is known of Harad and their language and customs, I chose to inspire me from a real culture, and gave her a Berber (Amazigh) name. It is a private little nod to Itô, a character I loved, who also has a Berber name, even though I didn't respect the spelling._

\- _Barakâl_ : Khuzdûl for 'cleaver', a translation of the name 'Orcrist', Goblin-cleaver

\- _Azerwal_ : Amazigh (Berber) name meaning 'the one with blue eyes'

\- _Amestan_ : Amazigh name meaning 'protector'

\- _Taghbalut_ : pronounced 'Tarbaloot', Amazigh name meaning 'spring' (water)

\- _Tala_ : Amazigh name meaning 'fountain'.


End file.
